Everything
by Snarky-Slytherin
Summary: Short POV piece, SLASH. One who suffers meditates on the death of love.


Author's Note: This is *slash*, and fairly explicit - or rather implicitly explicit - in parts. Please don't read if you don't like, rather than flaming afterwards. Feedback always welcome!!!  
  
  
  
There was a time when I would stop to think.  
  
There was a time when it took more than a single touch to ensnare me.  
  
There was a time when I would be the one taking and taking, without ever once thinking of *giving*.  
  
There was a time, many, many years ago, when my first contemplation upon waking would be of his eyes, and not his touch.  
  
The sound of his voice, not the feel of his lips bruising mine.  
  
The gentle rumble of his laughter, not the sensation of his hands roaming my sweat-soaked naked body as I writhe beneath him.  
  
I would bring to mind the warmth of his smile, as opposed to the thrust of his cock.  
  
I would lie in my bed, knowing that he was but a dream away, and pray for sleep.  
  
I would think about him in *that* way…I was innocent, not naïve. But in my dreams, and later in my fantasies, he took me with love, not lust. We kissed first…I always remember that we kissed first. But no, that's wrong. We *talked* first, for my dreams of him began when I was but a child, twelve years old. We talked and laughed together. We teased each other affectionately, not spitefully. We sometimes hugged. It was not until I reached the age of fourteen that we began to kiss. I had thought I wanted him for my friend…the innocence of youth! I knew it was love I felt in a heart not yet turned bitter by the pain of experience, but that love seemed to me a simple thing of beauty. There was nothing erotic about it at first. And when we kissed, the first real fantasy, it took me by surprise.  
  
My fantasies became stronger, more adult nature. I would dream of him as I caressed myself, exciting and soothing at once with tender strokes, imagining his warm hand manipulating me, his soft lips upon mine, drawing back only to whisper,  
  
'I love you'. It was then, always then, that I would reach my crisis, and fall sweating back upon my bed, eyes usually filled with tears as the dream faded, for I had lost him once more. Sometimes I would curl up on my side, my pillow beneath me, imagining that it was him; in my mind, laying my head against his damp chest, listening to the slowing thumping of his heart, cradled in warmth and safety and love.  
  
I would see him in the corridor, in the classroom, on the Quidditch pitch, and always he would turn from me with a frown. Never hatred in his eyes back then, merely kind of confused dislike, almost disgust, which eventually became pity. I hated that he pitied me for my loneliness.  
  
It was following the incident in the Shrieking Shack that my fantasies first turned bitter. I sat trembling in the empty Potions lab - always my refuge - trying to cope with what had happened, with the fact that the subject of my childish lovelorn dreams despised me so much that he wanted me to be hurt, to suffer, perhaps to die, and for what? Because I followed him around, unable to express my feelings in any natural way, and so venting them in caustic wit, the only outlet which seemed acceptable. I believe he knew how I felt, in truth, and that hurt more than anything else he might do to me.  
  
As I sat and shivered and ruminated helplessly on this, the door opened, and he was there. For a moment my heart lifted, just a little. Perhaps he would explain. Perhaps he would be sorry. Perhaps he would break down and I would forgive him, comfort him, love him.  
  
None of these things happened. He was…a little contrite. Embarrassed. Slightly ashamed. But more concerned for his werewolf than for me.  
  
"I wasn't trying to *kill* you." He muttered, unusually awkward. Where was the easy charm I had so loved - and envied?  
  
"It was just a joke." He continued, staring at the floor. "Just a prank. Look, you won't tell, will you?"  
  
As I said, after that, my dreams turned sour.  
  
No longer was it enough to imagine his smile, his warmth, his gentle, loving caresses. I dreamed of pain, progressing to torture, to rape, to blood and suffering.  
  
To lust. Love was dead, and only lust, that darker emotion, remained.  
  
Still remains, and is renewed each time I look at him. Each time I think of him. Each time I dream. For he fills my dreams - he fills my every moment, insinuated into my thoughts.  
  
At night, alone in the darkness, I touch myself, arching my back as I die yet another little death, wondering how many times one *can* die before the soul is reborn and cleansed. As I climax, visions rush through my mind, tumbling over one another…his bruising, ripping teeth, the sting of the knife as it cuts my white skin, the agonising tearing in my vitals as his member is thrust mercilessly into me.  
  
Ecstasy.  
  
As the images fade I make use of my wand to wash myself, desiring only to be cleansed of him. Of this.  
  
Innocence and experience.  
  
Love and lust.  
  
Light and darkness.  
  
He is all of these things and more, both ends of the continuum and all that lies between. He is my damnation and my salvation. He is nothing to me, and he is everything. He is my past. My present.  
  
My future? 


End file.
